“Never mind about them, Roy! I need help here!”
Roy yanked the bronco’s head in the air and turned him as on a pivot. He could hear his brother, but could not see him.
“Where are you?”
The question remained unanswered, for at that moment Roy reached the edge of the trees and saw Teddy.
The boy had dismounted and was leaning over a figure stretched out under a pine tree. The two ponies stood near by.
“Right, Teddy! Be with you in a second.”
Roy slid from the pony before it had come to a full stop. Then he was at his brother’s side and staring down at the body of a man—a miner, from his clothes—who lay breathing noisily, a thin trickle of blood running from his neck and spreading over the blue denim shirt.
“Got it good,” Teddy whispered. “Afraid he’s going to pass out pretty soon.”
The man was past fifty, from his grey hair, and nearly sixty from the lines creased deeply in his face. His eyes were sunken, the cheeks hollow, betokening much hardship. About six feet tall he was, with long arms that now lay like rods of flesh at his sides. The fingers opened and closed convulsively, then quieted.
As Roy bent toward him, he thought how much this unfortunate reminded him of Pop Burns, an old hand on the X Bar X. Tall, thin, grizzled, same facial characteristics, same broad forehead and large ears.